


not my ocean anymore

by notspring



Series: you're the place i can go [6]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Gen, Non-Chronological, references to past domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29488350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notspring/pseuds/notspring
Summary: "I can’t do it — it’s too hard. I want to give up."
Relationships: Kim Mingyu & Xu Ming Hao | The8, Wen Jun Hui | Jun & Xu Ming Hao | The8, Xu Ming Hao | The8 & Yoon Jeonghan
Series: you're the place i can go [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884562
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47





	not my ocean anymore

  
  
_I can’t do it — it’s too hard. I want to give up._

The thoughts are always stuck to the back of his consciousness. Impossible to scrub out, no matter how he tries.

Minghao’s too afraid to say them out loud.  
  
  
  


࿏

  
  
  
  
He can hardly make himself read the artist’s plaque — it’s an agony every time he has to describe it to museum patrons. How the artist feels that she’s lost herself, that there’s nothing more left in her. No creative impulse, nothing at all. The works themselves are oppressive, unpleasant to look at — huge canvases, so dark they’re almost black. If you stare at them too long it feels like you’re being pulled in. Most people don’t stay in the room long. 

Junhui has been sitting on the bench for close to forty minutes now.

Minghao takes a careful seat next to him, leaving plenty of room between them. 

Junhui looks over, nods when he sees who it is. There’s a little quirk to his mouth, like he’s just thought of a joke.

“I don’t really understand it,” he says, nodding at the painting in front of him. Minghao’s only response is a hum of acknowledgment, but Junhui doesn’t seem bothered. He looks again, a long moment of silence passing between them. “You do, though,” Junhui adds. It isn't a question. 

Mingyu’s tried to help — of course he has. He bought supplies for Minghao and everything, but Minghao hasn’t touched any of them yet.

Minghao hums again, now, waiting, but Junhui doesn’t say anything more. He stretches out a little, his hand wandering towards the middle of the bench. Minghao lets his own hand drift further towards him in response. 

Their fingers brush, then link.  
  
  
  


࿏

  
  
  
  
“I can’t do it,” Minghao says with a weak laugh.

Junhui laughs in return, so breezy Minghao can barely see the effort behind it.

“Of course you can,” he says. “What a silly thing to say.”  
  
  
  


࿏

  
  
  
  
“What’s this — oh,” Jeonghan’s voice fades as he squints at something in his hand, unearthed from behind Minghao’s dresser in his futile search for three missing 500 won coins. 

Minghao peers closer, trying to get a better look at what Jeonghan’s found. He freezes when he sees it — a picture of him and Mingyu, not long after they met. The version of Minghao in the picture is a totally different person. It’s painful for Minghao to look at him, now. Even worse that Jeonghan can see him, too. 

“You looked different,” Jeonghan says carefully, watching for Minghao’s response. Minghao’s mouth twists in a grimace.

“I had to get my nose reconstructed,” he says, letting the ugliness of it act as a shield. _I let him kiss it better_ , he isn’t brave enough to add.

Jeonghan freezes as that sets in, his eyes still set on Minghao’s face, any lightheartedness left in his expression faded completely. Minghao waits for his response, breath caught — it feels pivotal, like their entire relationship hinges on his reaction. Jeonghan must feel it too, because as Minghao watches the look on his face shifts into something more deliberate. 

“Ah,” he says after a moment. “Well. They did a good job, Myungho-yah. The new one looks great.”

Minghao lets out a strangled laugh, too relieved to hold it in, and Jeonghan laughs too. He leans in closer, clearly gaining confidence from Minghao’s reaction, and reaches for Minghao. Minghao lets him do it, bemused, Jeonghan holding him carefully by the jaw as he pretends to inspect his face.

“Excellent work,” Jeonghan says. Minghao laughs again, at the absurdity of it more than anything, and Jeonghan has to raise his voice a little so the sound can carry over Minghao’s giggles as he continues. “I hope you kept their contact information.”

“Why?” Minghao asks, trying to catch his breath. “Are you looking to get something done?”

“I could be,” Jeonghan says, tone carefully irreverent. Minghao snorts.

“Dr. Yu doesn’t do cosmetic work,” he says dryly, finally pushing Jeonghan’s hands away. Jeonghan backs off easily, collapsing onto the couch instead. “I think you’re out of luck.”

“A pity,” he sighs, leaning against the wall, his gaze fond and warm. 

“You don’t need it, anyway,” Minghao says honestly, too serious for the mood Jeonghan is clearly aiming for. Jeonghan doesn’t seem bothered, though — he grins at Minghao, seeming genuinely delighted by his response. 

“You say the sweetest things,” he coos, the heaviness of the moment still somehow eased. It never gets any less amazing to Minghao, how Jeonghan can do it so easily — lighten things between them like that, keep Minghao from getting too heavy. 

“Only for you,” Minghao teases back, and he’s rewarded with a blinding smile. “Hyung is so beautiful,” he adds, voice dripping with fake aegyo. Jeonghan cackles in response, his whole body seizing with it as he kicks out his feet in delight. 

_I mean it_ , Minghao wants to say, but he knows that isn’t his place — that isn’t what they have. He hopes Jeonghan finds someone to tell him properly, some day. He deserves to hear it for real.  
  
  
  


࿏

  
  
  
  
“It’s too hard,” Minghao breathes out, not looking at Jeonghan as he says it.

Jeonghan says nothing, but his grip is steady when he reaches for Minghao’s hand.  
  
  
  


࿏

  
  
  
  
“Come on,” Mingyu says, on what Minghao thinks is his sixth day crashing on his couch. He reaches out to gently shake Minghao’s shoulder with a tentative hand, and when Minghao doesn’t react he gets bolder, trying to urge him upright. Minghao doesn’t stop him but he doesn’t respond, either. “I’m cutting your hair,” Mingyu continues, and _that_ gets Minghao’s attention. He makes a vaguely disgruntled noise in response, but Mingyu doesn’t let him go, guiding him to his feet.

His clumsy hands are gentle as he maneuvers Minghao into a chair set in the middle of the kitchen, the fluorescent light heavy and unforgiving. Minghao lets himself drift again, Mingyu’s hands warm and sure against the crown of his head, the back of his neck. His fingers tilt Minghao’s head when he does the sides and Minghao lets that happen too, the space between them quiet and still.

“What happened to your music?” Minghao asks, suddenly realizing what’s been missing. Mingyu’s always playing something in the apartment — he hates the silence, says it always makes him feel so lonely. 

Mingyu pauses, then carefully returns to his work.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he says quietly. 

Minghao lets that sink in, blinking rapidly at the implications. He clears his throat once, twice.

“You should turn it back on,” he says, once he can trust his voice not to betray him. Mingyu hums in absent acknowledgement, a soft sound as his hands brush stray hairs from the nape of Minghao’s neck. 

“All done.” Mingyu carefully takes the towel from where he’d draped it over Minghao’s shoulders, shakes it out onto the tile. 

“Thanks,” Minghao says quietly, but Mingyu waves him off.

“It was nothing,” he says, voice firm. “Now go shower, you’re freaking me out.”

Minghao makes a face. Mingyu gives him a winning smile in return. 

He only gave Minghao a trim, but when he stands he feels so much lighter, somehow.

“I feel like I did it to myself,” Minghao admits quietly after his shower, staring at the candle’s flickering light in front of him so he won’t have to see the look on Mingyu’s face. Soft strings hum in the background — Mingyu turned the music back on, after all. 

Mingyu makes a raw, wounded sound, like an animal in pain.

“Myungho,” he says, pleading. “How could you say that?”

“I liked it at first, didn’t I?” Minghao says tonelessly. He still can’t bring himself to look at him. “It was what I wanted. I thought it was so romantic.”

Minghao can’t count how many times he called Mingyu to come pick him up, back then — from bars, from parties. From the clinic, after he’d gotten his dislocated shoulder reset. 

_I’m a martial artist_ , Minghao remembers explaining to the intake nurse, so used to lying by that point that he didn’t even have to plan what he was going to say. She’d nodded in understanding, hadn’t questioned him any further.

When Mingyu had come to pick him up Minghao hadn’t even bothered with the lie. He’d just silently let Mingyu lead them out of the building, feeling something inside him crumble at the way Mingyu held the door for him so carefully.

Mingyu showed everything on his face, always, and that day had been no exception. His eyes were so serious, full of so much concern that Minghao had almost hated him for it. For not letting Minghao pretend it was fine. How was he supposed to bear it when Mingyu was looking at him like that?

 _You’ll scare Mingyu_ , Minghao remembers saying to himself like a mantra on the way back home from the bar on a bad night, as he forced himself to keep walking. One step, then another. He couldn’t let himself do anything bad. He’d scare Mingyu.

Mingyu makes another urgent noise in his throat, now. He grabs Minghao’s hand in his broader one, fumbling until he’s holding it properly. Mingyu’s so much stronger than Minghao, but he’s never once made Minghao feel afraid. 

“What happened before doesn’t matter,” Mingyu says. The words come out a little too fast, Mingyu tripping over his own tongue in his haste to get them out. Minghao presses down the urge to wrestle his hand back, risking a glance over at Mingyu and regretting it almost immediately — Mingyu’s eyes are still so open, all his pain there for anyone to see. Minghao doesn’t know what to do with it. 

He doesn’t even know what to do with his own.

“Myungho,” Mingyu says again, leaning forward to try and catch Minghao’s gaze. Minghao lets him, reluctantly. “That doesn’t matter, okay? I promise you, you didn’t deserve it. You _didn’t_.”

Minghao raises one shoulder in discomfort. He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. He doesn’t believe Mingyu, and he knows Mingyu knows he doesn’t. Mingyu isn’t stupid, but he won’t give it up either. He says the same thing to Minghao every time it comes up, like if he just repeats it often enough one day it’ll stick. 

Minghao isn’t sure it will, but he supposes he has to give Mingyu props for putting in the effort. He’s a hard worker, at least. No one can deny that.  
  
  
  


࿏

  
  
  
  
“I want to give up,” Minghao says, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. 

Mingyu’s eyes shine so brightly, wide and urgent. 

“Please don’t,” he begs. “I’ll help.”  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> sometimes ur writing something totally different and suddenly ur just like. [sharp inhale] i love.. minghao.....


End file.
